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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169232">A Safe Place to Land</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7'>DeliriumsDelight7</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>California Solo (2012), Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:21:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy AU of my other fic, Breaking Cycles.  When former Brit-Pop guitarist Lachlan MacAldonich returns to Scotland looking for his parents, he visits the library they used to frequent.  Belle helps to reunite a family fractured by tragedy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Lachlan MacAldonich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Coming Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603159">Breaking Cycles</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7">DeliriumsDelight7</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>That's right.  I'm writing a fluffy AU of my own work, before it's even done.  I blame a certain person on Tumblr whose heart I broke from what I did with Lachlan's parents.  You know who you are.  I couldn't get the guilt out of my head, so I had to write this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Belle French glanced up from the steadily filling return cart for the fifth time in ten minutes.  The miniscule library was fairly crowded, as it usually was on Monday evenings when families came to return finished books in exchange for new.  In another hour or two she’d have to start reshelving the books, moving quickly in the hopes that the library would be empty enough that nobody would come to the unattended circulation desk looking for help.  But for now, she had time to read.  And to watch.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The object of her observation was a man in his mid to late forties, if she were to guess.  Standing just a handful of centimeters taller than her, he had a slim build - slim, but with a wiry musculature and tanned skin that spoke of a career working outdoors.  Perhaps somewhere sunnier than rainy Glasgow.  His hair was a medium brown, with longish fringe framing his high cheekbones.  The longer hair curling past his nape as shot through with gray.  His wardrobe, outdated though it was, suited him well.  The white of his V-neck T-shirt only emphasized the healthy glow of his skin, and the tight jeans he wore lovingly hugged what Belle knew from previous visits was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> nice butt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had come to the library two times last week, never checking anything out or asking for any help.  The first night, he lurked uneasily just inside the entryway, blinking in the harsh fluorescent lighting.  Last Friday he fingered the magazines and periodicals almost guiltily.  Tonight he liotered by the library entrance, looking lost.  At least, she thought he looked lost.  It was hard to tell beneath the dark sunglasses he wore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Catching his eye, she gave the man a welcoming smile.  He ambled over to the circulation desk, hands jammed in his pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” she greeted him warmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile brought out an answering gleam in him.  “Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I noticed that you came in twice last week, but didn’t check out any books or anything,” she said.  “It looked like you might need help, so I figured I’d ask.”  She resisted the urge to play with the curl by her ear.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re here to work, Belle, not to flirt with cute older men with nice smiles and nicer arses. </span>
  </em>
  <span> “So do you?  Need help, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grin brightened the room better than the fluorescent lights above ever could.  “Aye, I suppose I do,” he said.  “You see, I’ve just moved back to the area, and was trying to find someone.  I tried visiting them at their old house, but, ah, they must have moved away.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.  Well, I’m afraid we don’t have any sort of telephone directory,” Belle admitted with a rueful wrinkle of her nose.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, of course not.  Just - they used to spend a lot of time here, years ago.  It’s a long shot, but…”  He trailed off with a shrug, one palm raised as if to say, “there you have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm…  Well, I can’t promise I know everyone who comes in.  And obviously I can’t just tell you where they live, or when they come by.”  The man’s eyes lowered in disappointment, and she hastened to continue.  “But if I do know them, I could pass on a message.  Like your name and phone number.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough.”  The man tossed his head to dislodge the hair from his eyes.  “Their names are Malcolm and Fiona MacAldonich.  They’d be, oh, about seventy now.  Both short,” he added with a wry look down at his own slight frame.  “Malcolm’s got red hair and green eyes, and a receding hairline.”  His fingers strayed to his forehead, as though reassuring himself that his own hairline had stayed put.  “Fiona’s got graying black hair, and brown eyes.  A mouth like mine.”  And yes, she could see a resemblance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle very carefully did not look over at the library’s outdated computers, where a woman in her seventies with gray hair was carrying on her weekly tradition of listening to a podcast, of all things.  She had to approach this very carefully.  “I’ve seen them around a few times,” she said noncommittally.  “And I might be able to leave a message for one of my colleagues to give to them.  Who should I say the message is from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand came up to ruffle the hair at the back of his head.  “Ah… Lachlan.  Lachlan MacAldonich.”  He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, his eyes glued to his shoes.  “Their son.”  Upon request, he provided his phone number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyeing him warily, Belle jotted down the name and number.  Lachlan’s posture and demeanor didn’t speak of a joyous reunion between parents and child.  It spoke of guilt, or shame.  So either this man was an amateur scammer trying to take advantage of an elderly couple… or something had strained the relationship between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this man were looking for anyone else, Belle would probably wait for him to leave before crumpling the note into a ball and throwing it in the bin.  But of all of the patrons who graced her library regularly, the MacAldonichs were the dearest to her heart.  Upon hearing Belle’s foreign accent, Fiona had immediately taken the petite librarian under her wing, insisting that “such a bonny lass needed folk to look after her” and that she, Fiona, would “have her fattened up in no time.”  Malcolm, for his part, always asked Belle what she was reading when Belle came over for weekly cooking lessons with Fiona.  He’d sit in his rocking chair, perfectly content to listen to her ramble on about far off places, daring sword fights, and princes in disguise.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew them well enough to know that they had two sons: one deceased, the other one lost to them.  That was the word they used: “lost,” and he wasn’t the only one.  It seemed that they were just as lonely as she was, cut adrift from family and trying desperately to stay afloat.  They’d clung to each other since Belle came here six years ago, and she’d come to view them as surrogate parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any ID, Lachlan?” Belle asked.  “Just so I can confirm you are who you say you are.”  Not that there was much doubt; he had Malcolm’s nose, and Fiona’s cheeks and mouth.  Still, one couldn’t be too careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah… yeah.”  He wriggled his wallet from his back jeans, flipping it open to grab his ID.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She eyed it critically.  She didn’t have much experience with American IDs, but this one seemed legitimate enough.  Now, she just had to handle this delicately.  “Thank you, Lachlan,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  “I just need to check on this quickly.  Would you mind waiting in my office for a few moments?”  She gestured behind her to her bottle-green office door, which was currently ajar with the light on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er… sure.”  He circled around the desk dubiously, preceding her into her office when gestured to do so.  He settled uneasily on one of the two chairs on the side of the desk opposite hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect.  I’ll be back in just a few moments.”  With another smile, she closed the door silently behind her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At a deliberately unhurried pace, Belle made her way over to the alcove that housed the library’s desktop computers, the carpet muffling the sound of her heels against the floor.  In the far corner, undisturbed, sat a diminutive woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a loose chignon at her nape.  Her reading glasses were in one hand, the other discreetly wiping her eyes with a tissue.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up at the librarian’s approach, beaming despite her reddened eyes and nose.  “Och!  Belle!  Just who I wanted to see.”  Belle winced at Fiona’s volume, knowing that shushing her was a losing battle.  “I’ve just finished up here.  Could you help me turn this thing off?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a minute.  I wanted to talk to you first.”  She slid into the office chair next to Fiona’s and took the older woman’s hand in her own.  “Fiona… someone came to the front desk looking for you.  He says he’s your son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>******</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan was about ninety percent sure he was about to be arrested again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing he’d done, upon alighting from the plane last week with a guitar case in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, was to find cheap accommodations.  The second thing he’d done was take a taxi to the small farmhouse where he’d grown up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shouldn’t have been surprised to see a young couple living there, a toddler clinging to the father’s leg while the mother held a baby slung across one hip.  He was, but he shouldn’t have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking the phone book had yielded no results.  Either they lived at an unlisted address, or… well.  He didn’t want to think about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The library was his last resort, and at first it seemed like the pretty librarian was going to help him.  But the way she watched him so warily made him feel like a criminal - like she expected him to lunge at her any moment.  Now she had him shut in a strange, book-filled room, doing god only knew what with his useless suspended California license.  His knee bounced up and down, nearly vibrating in agitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The office door opened, and Lachlan bolted up to his feet.  “Listen, Miss, I appre…”  He trailed off, his mouth hanging open slightly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of the pretty librarian with bronze curls and sky-blue eyes, he was looking into a face similar to his own, framed by hair the color of tarnished silver.  Her brown eyes, so similar to his own, rapidly filled with tears.  “Lachy?” she gasped through trembling lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mam.”  Shaking fingers fumbled with the silver bracelet on his right wrist as his eyes darted around, looking for a way out.  Oh Christ, this was a mistake - he wasn’t ready - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cool fingers on his cheek pulled him from his panic.  Two pairs of brown eyes met - one fraught and terrified, the other weeping.  “Oh Lachlan,” his mother said, her voice thick with tears.  “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I never thought…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I - I couldn’t - not after--”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could protest he was wrapped in the comfort of her arms, his face buried in her neck.  She was so warm, and she smelled just like he remembered - like fresh laundry and the Elizabeth Taylor perfume she sprayed in her clothes drawers.  All thoughts of escape - of running away yet again - fled, and he crushed her to himself and bawled.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean - I never wanted to hurt - I should never--”  He couldn’t get a full sentence out around the gasping, shuddering sobs that wracked him.  Distantly he registered a hand stroking the back of his head - just the way it had when he awoke from nightmares, or when he was sick.  Gradually his sobs subsided into sniffling hiccups, and he chanted the same words into his mam’s shoulder, over and over: “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhhhhh.  It’s alright, love.  We’ll talk about it later.”  With a hand on each cheek she pulled his sniffling, tear-logged face from her soaked blouse, looking at him with a watery chuckle.  She produced a packet of tissues from one of the pockets in her oversized purse, mopping up the tears and other fluids from his face.  A fresh tissue was held to his nose.  “Blow,” she prompted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling silly and a little childish, he obeyed.  Distantly, his mind registered a loud, mechanical whirring in the background.  A vacuum?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” she asked, using yet another tissue to dab at her own eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure.  Seeing his mam after all these years brought back so many feelings and memories that he’d kept buried for decades.  All he wanted to do was sink into her comforting embrace and hear her tell him that everything would be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> okay.  His brother was dead, because of him.  To accept comfort from the woman whose son he killed was selfish.  It couldn’t be this easy.  If it was, he… he could…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have come home years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That thought started his tears afresh.  “Och, none of that now, or I’ll run out of napkins,” his mother scolded gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was unlikely.  If he knew his mother, that enormous bag held a portable pharmacy.  But he choked the tears back as well as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of the vacuum cut off abruptly.  Slowly, silently, the office door swung open, and the librarian poked her head in.  Giving a compassionate smile to the weeping pair, she said, “Fiona, your husband is waiting outside.  Do you want me to have him come in, or…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god.  Da.  If the thought of facing his mam’s temper had frightened him, the idea of his da’s disappointment was utterly terrifying.  The quiet, good-natured man would forgive nearly anything.  If he chose to disown his younger son, Lachlan didn’t know if he could take it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother must have seen some of the panic on his face.  “Ask him to give us a few minutes.”  The younger woman nodded, about to duck out of the door.  “Oh, and Belle?”  The younger woman turned back just in time for a crushing bear hug.  “Thank you,” she whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>******</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle vacuumed over the same spot over and over, to the irritation of several library patrons.  Well, if they didn’t like the noise, they could lodge a complaint tomorrow.  The library walls were ridiculously thin, hardly dampening any sound even through closed doors.  Humming hadn’t drowned out the sound of sobbing coming from her office, but the ancient vacuum cleaner did wonderfully.  Fiona and her son deserved to have their reunion without being overheard by strangers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more minutes, mother and son emerged from behind the closed door.  If Belle had any lingering doubts, they faded at one look at Lachlan’s face.  His skin was splotchy and pink, eyes red-rimmed and mouth still trembling.  As far as Belle knew, nobody was such a good actor that they could ugly-cry on command.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona herded her son toward the library entrance like a lost lamb, nudging him forward when he hesitated.  His gaze was riveted past the glass doors, where a mostly bald man with wispy white hair, green eyes, and a long nose waited.  Lachlan trudged reluctantly toward the doors, dragging his feet with every step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle watched with bated breath as they met Malcolm outside.  Lachlan lowered his head, saying something that Belle couldn’t hear through the thick glass doors.  The older man stared at his son for a long moment.  An arm lashed out, fisting in the thin material of Lachlan’s T-shirt and yanking him into Malcolm’s chest, clasping him close.  Belle’s own eyes grew misty as she watched both men cling to each other, weeping and unashamed.  She allowed herself a sniffle as the older man led his wife and son to his waiting car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were going to be okay.  She was sure of it.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm marking this work as complete, but I may come back to this as I work on Breaking Cycles as a palate cleanser, or if people express interest.  I'd be willing to take prompts for this, as I have absolutely no story arc in mind for this.  You can hit me up here, or on Tumblr at deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com.  Since this is a side project, I'd like to keep it relatively light-hearted and rated T (sorry to disappoint).</p><p>Chapter title yoinked from "Coming Home" by Iron Maiden.  Seemed like an appropriate choice.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, I banged out a second chapter because I needed a break from the angst.  Still open to taking prompts for this; otherwise it's probably something I'll update sporadically.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Belle pulled her car up to the small two-floor stone cottage, questioning her welcome.  Dust from the dirt lane curled in the air around her little blue coup.  The hedges separating the house’s tiny garden from the surrounding field was lush and neatly-trimmed - much neater than the last time she’d been here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stared at the mauve front door with its festive summer wreath, dithering.  Sunday dinners had been a tradition with the MacAldonichs for the past five years, and she’d yet to miss a single one.  At this point, her presence was assumed.  She always got here early enough to help Fiona with dinner and have a quiet chat with Malcolm.  Over dinner, Fiona would regale both of them with the town’s latest goings-on, and after cleanup they would settle in the living room with tea and talk.  Sometimes, Malcolm would read Bible verse aloud.  Belle wasn’t particularly religious, but listening to his quiet voice as the setting sun cast lengthening shadows in the living room was soothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though, she might be intruding.  Belle knew that a large part of why they’d taken her in was to fill the hole their missing sons had left in their lives.  Now that Lachlan was home, would there still be a place for her here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only one way to find out.  Squaring her shoulders, she got out of the car, purse in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.  That was part of their weekly tradition: Fiona insisted on providing both meal and dessert, waving off all of Belle’s protests.  Refusing to come empty-handed, Belle always brought a bottle of wine for them to share.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She got to the door, and hesitated.  Normally, she just let herself in and announced her arrival.  But things were different now.  What if she interrupted a private family moment?  Best to knock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Predictably, her three sharp raps on the door got the dog’s attention, as evidenced by the sound of barking and nails scrabbling against wooden floors.  That was followed by Fiona’s slippered feet.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back, Bailey!” she snapped as she opened the door.  “Och, Belle, you know better than to knock!  You’re family!”  The older woman’s eyes fell on the wine bottle, and she sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.  “Hide that!” she hissed, shutting the door behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh - um - sure.”  She hurried back to the car and stashed the wine in the boot as Fiona looked on in approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, dear,” Fiona whispered as Belle returned.  “I should have called to tell you - Lachlan’s only just quit…”  She pantomimed lifting a bottle to her mouth.  “...and I don’t want to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He may be a wee bit crabby,” she warned.  “He’s not had an easy few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If today’s not a good time…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bite your tongue!  Now get yourself inside before you catch cold.”  Belle didn’t bother pointing out that it was a pleasant twenty-one degrees out.  Fiona would just find another reason to usher her indoors.  “There’s tatties to peel and a cake to frost.  The men are useless in the kitchen, so I could use all the help I can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of his parents’ Australian Shepherd barking and whining, followed by a woman’s playful shrieking, drew Lachlan from his bed.  Six days without a single drink left him feeling wrung out, both figuratively and literally.  The nausea and puking had finally let up yesterday, but he still had little energy.  He managed a bit of light housework here and there - bad enough he was living with his parents at his age, he refused to be a freeloader - but he needed to rest frequently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight that greeted him at the bottom of the narrow staircase was… unexpected.  A woman with a familiar head of bronze curls sat on the hardwood floors.  The dog writhed in her lap, licking her face and doing his admirable best to shove his tongue up her nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bailey--”  Planting both hands on the dog’s shoulders, the girl from the library managed to wrench him back.  His tongue lapped frantically at the air, her face just out of his reach.  “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>stinky</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Who’s got stinky breath?  Is it you?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I bet it is!” she cooed.  The dog squirmed and whined delightedly at being so addressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan shifted on his feet.  The creaking step must have gotten her attention, because her head whipped around, and she immediately flushed bright red.  Bailey took advantage of her distraction, tackling her to the ground to bathe her entire face despite her shrieks of protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blegh!  Bai - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bailey</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh bubbled out of his throat at her predicament.  He started down the steps to help her, but his da beat him to the punch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bailey!  Off!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan instinctively flinched at that tone.  Malcolm MacAldonich didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, everyone listened.  Including, it seemed, energetic dogs hell-bent on pestering pretty librarians.  With a guilty look, Bailey sulked off and flopped onto his bed in the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You spoil him,” Malcolm chided gently from his armchair where he was contentedly reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and you love it.”  Pushing herself to a sitting position, she wiped the dog spit from her face, scrubbing her hand on her jeans.  She braced herself, getting ready to stand, when a tanned hand reached out to help her up.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan looked more tired than the last time she’d seen him.  Pallor diminished the healthy glow of his tan, and he had the sleepy, slightly disgruntled look of someone who’d woken too soon from a nap.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She accepted his help, surprised at the easy strength with which he tugged her up.  “Lachlan!  Nice to meet you properly this time.”  She shook the hand that was still clasped in her own.  “I’d go for the kiss on the cheek, but I need to wash my face.  I doubt you want dog breath on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bailey assaulted me just two hours ago,” he admitted.  “So I’m getting used to the dog breath.  It’s nice to meet you, ah…”  Shit.  What was her name, again?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Belle.”  Her easy smile absolved him of any guilt he might feel at forgetting her name.  “Monday was a big day. I’m sure you had a lot on your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had no idea.  Monday evening had been a night of tears, doubts, self-blame and, eventually, forgiveness.  After a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk about Jed, his years in California, Arianwen, and finally his drinking, his mam and da assured him that he had a place with them for as long as he needed it, under one condition: he had to get his drinking under control.  Given his past attempts to ease up, he knew it would be simpler - though certainly not easier - to give up drinking altogether.  The past several days had been a blur of mood swings, sweating, and puking while his body struggled to cope with the lack of alcohol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Belle,” he repeated.  “Mam and da have told me a lot about you.  It’s… it’s good that they had you.  Thanks for keeping them company all this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waved him off.  “I had little choice, honestly.  As soon as Fiona found out I was alone, she was determined to adopt me.  Between me and Bailey, I’m convinced she’s opening a home for wayward Aussies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled at that.  Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink, and she looked up at him flirtatiously.  He was struck, not for the first time, by just how lovely she was.  Unlike at the library, she wasn’t wearing any makeup today, but that didn’t diminish at all from her appearance.  Her reddish-brown hair curled around her face and shoulders, and her eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen.  Her face reddened even further under his regard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Belle!  These tatties won’t peel themselves!”  Fiona’s light-hearted rebuke pulled the pair from each other’s eyes.  She shook a wooden spoon in their direction.  “Go wash up first.  I know you let Bailey slobber all over you again, the monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better listen to the boss,” Malcolm advised, not looking up from his book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>******</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona gradually added powdered sugar to the mixture of butter, cream cheese, vanilla, and salt, beating it with her electric hand mixer until it reached the right thickness.  Belle was a great help in the kitchen, but the girl couldn’t do a thing with powdered sugar without getting it everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She eyed her son and honorary daughter speculatively.  Lachlan was currently sitting at the kitchen table, watching the two women cook.  He hadn’t kept her company in the kitchen since he was ten years old, and that included this week.  She had the nagging suspicion that it wasn’t a hankering for his old mam’s company that brought him here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle, for her part, kept finding excuses to walk away from the half-peeled potatoes and pass by the table.  She needed a glass of water.  She spilled some of her water, and needed a paper towel to mop it up.  She wanted to throw out the empty cream cheese and butter wrappers that Fiona was perfectly capable of chucking in the bin herself.  Every time she passed, she had a kind smile for Lachlan, who gave an answering warmth of his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Interesting.  Fiona would have to keep an eye on this development.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle finished up peeling the potatoes and started dicing them, readying them for boiling and mashing.  She could feel Lachlan’s eyes on her back, the weight of them making her fumble a bit with the paring knife.  Someone needed to tell him that having a pair of warm, whiskey-brown eyes on her was entirely too distracting.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They couldn’t exactly hold a conversation here; the electric whirr of Fiona’s ancient hand mixer prevented it.  And honestly, she didn’t really know what to say.  What did one talk about with the prodigal son of your unofficial adopted family when you knew nothing about him?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon the hand mixer shut off, and Fiona smacked the beaters against the rim of the bowl.  “Frosting’s done!  Lachy, do you want to lick one of the beaters?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan’s face burned hot in mortification.  Mam had been doing things like this all week: adjusting the collars of his shirts, brushing the hair from his face with comments about needing a haircut, and even on one occasion licking her thumb and wiping some imaginary dirt from his face.  It was like the past thirty years hadn’t happened for her, and he was still a fourteen-year-old boy.  God, Belle must think he was pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mam, I’m forty-five years old.  I’m a bit old to be licking beaters,” he grumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That just means there’s more for me,” Belle announced, plucking one from Fiona’s outstretched hand.  His gaze was riveted on her as her pink tongue darted out to lick the creamy white confection off the metal, and fuck, he really needed to get his mind out of the gutter.  His mind helpfully supplied a wealth of images of her licking things off of him, and him happily returning the favor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle wasn’t oblivious.  If Lachlan’s eyes had weighed on her before, now his scorching gaze was the center of her universe.  Her skin grew warm as his eyes flicked up and down, taking in all of her.  She studiously avoided looking at him as she finished her treat, placing the beater in the sink and excusing herself to another room to calm the butterflies in her stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan watched her go, admiring the way her jeans clung to her legs with each step.  A smack to the back of his head wrenched him from his fancy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mam!  What the hell!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No hanky-panky in my kitchen!” she hissed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, Mam, you really think I’m gonna do something like that right in front of you?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d better not,” she warned, brandishing her wooden spoon threateningly.  He still remembered how it felt to be rapped on the knuckles with the blasted thing, and he had no desire for a refresher.  Before he could say anything else, she sobered.  “Belle is a good girl, Lachy, and we’ve been lucky to have her all these years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he said quietly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s been--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Fiona could finish her thought, Belle returned to the room.  She glanced curiously between mother and son before returning to her chore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon the pot of potatoes was boiling on the stove, the starchy smell mixing with the fragrant herbs in the pot roast that was slowly cooking in the oven.  Belle and Fiona worked together to frost the carrot cake on the nice glass cake plate.  Feeling awkward just watching the women work, Lachlan made himself useful setting the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, dinner was ready.  The four of them sat at the table, dishing food onto plates.  Fiona carried most of the conversation, broken only by Malcolm’s occasional quiet quip.  Lachlan stayed quiet, as he had every night at dinner, content to listen.  Belle, too, ate without a word, her warm smiles setting his stomach fluttering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once plates were all emptied and contented sighs breathed all around, Lachlan and Malcolm cleared the table, following Fiona’s number one rule: The Cook Doesn’t Clean.  Once done, Fiona brought out the carrot cake and cut everyone a thick, hearty slice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seemed like the perfect dessert for tonight,” she said as she handed out the plates.  “It’s both Lachy and Belle’s favorite, and today’s a day to celebrate.  We’re all together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan’s heart ached.  He’d finally come home, yes.  But Jed never would, and it was his fault.  His parents didn’t blame him.  They’d assured him of the fact several times this week.  But how could they not?  He’d bought the drugs.  He’d convinced Jed to take them.  He’d…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His da’s hand grasped his shoulder, giving him a quick shake, and it was only then he realized he was near tears.  Blinking them back, he tucked into his dessert.  It was just as mouth-watering as ever - the cake flavorful and moist, the frosting rich and creamy.  It tasted like birthdays and holidays and celebrations of small family successes.  It tasted like the very best of home.  He polished his off in minutes, as did his parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle merely picked at hers, he noticed, taking a few bites with a private smile.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the table was cleared again, Fiona glanced at the dog where he rested contentedly on his bed.  “Lachy, love, why don’t you and Belle take Bailey for a walk?  He’s raring to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan frowned.  “But what about—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your da and I can handle the washing up,” she interrupted.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malcolm looked up in surprise, but judiciously said nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>******</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… your mum isn’t very subtle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lachlan laughed aloud at that.  “Aye, she’s got all the delicacy of a bull in a china shop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They strolled together down the dirt lane, watching Bailey’s black and white form bounding in the tall grass of the surrounding fields.  Belle’s hands were tucked behind her back, Lachlan’s shoved deep in his pockets.  The sun was setting past the rim of the horizon, casting long shadows on them and painting the sky a myriad of colors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the first time she’s tried setting me up with someone,” she admitted.  “She means well, but ‘you're both single’ is hardly a ringing endorsement to start a relationship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I s’pose you’ve lucked out this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave him a sidelong glance.  “How so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it obvious?  We both love carrot cake.”  Her tinkling laugh sent a jolt of joy through him, inspiring a chuckle of his own.  She had a beautiful laugh.  “Mam’s probably already hearing wedding bells, and planning to bake us an eight-tiered carrot cake for the occasion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, god, that would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> unfortunate.”  At the flash of hurt in Lachlan’s eyes, she realized how bad that sounded.  “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing on tiptoe, she leaned close enough to whisper in his ear.  Her breath puffed against his neck, and his shiver had nothing to do with the cooling evening air.  “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> carrot cake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That… was not what he was expecting.  “What?” he asked stupidly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mum made a carrot cake the first time she had me over for dinner,” Belle remembered as they circled back toward the house.  “I told her it was the best I’d ever had - which was true!” she rushed to add.  “Her cream cheese frosting is </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the cake was… less disgusting than any other carrot cake I’ve ever had.  She thought I meant it was the best dessert I’ve ever had.  I don’t have the heart to break it to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bumped her shoulder playfully with his own.  “How can you not like carrot cake?” he demanded.  “You must have questionable taste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like carrots, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> cake.  I just don’t think the two belong together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> questionable taste,” he repeated.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I do,” she allowed.  She tugged gently on his arm, pulling him to a stop right next to her tiny blue car.  “But I’m starting to think maybe Fiona doesn’t.  This time, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowned in confusion.  “Belle?”  He was pretty sure he knew what she was trying to say, but he could be wrong.  Wouldn’t be the first time he’d read signals where there were none.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m at the library most days.”  She fidgeted with the hem of her blouse, looking somewhere past his left shoulder.  “Maybe you could drop by sometime and keep me company.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed.  “Aye, I’d - I’d like that.”  The smile she gave him set butterflies fluttering in his stomach.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too.”  She laid one hand on his cheek, thumb caressing and enjoying the rough rasp of his stubble.  Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned up on her toes and kissed him, whisper-soft, on the cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flicker of movement caught her eye.  Looking over Lachlan’s shoulder, she saw Fiona peeking out the kitchen window, both fists pumped in the air.  Belle giggled, ducking her head shyly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wondering what she was seeing, Lachlan whirled around to see his mother with an unrepentant grin on her face, making a show of covering her eyes and ducking out of the window.  Embarrassment heated his cheeks.  “Ah, bloody hell, she’ll be insufferable after this,” he muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belle’s merry smile lessened the awkwardness.  “Well, I suppose I should leave you to that.  I’ve got to be up early for work tomorrow.  But, um…”. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.  “Maybe I’ll see you sometime this week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.  I’ll see you then.”  Before she could reach for her car door, Lachlan already had it open for her.  He waited until she was buckled in before he closed it, giving the roof a reassuring pat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite taking off slowly, the car kicked up a lot of dust, which Lachlan waved away impatiently.  He watched Belle’s car drive away until she rounded a turn and her tail lights disappeared.  Even several minutes later he stood there, basking in the moment.  His mother’s smug questions and Bailey’s whining would have to wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if tomorrow would be too soon to visit.  Playing his hand too soon might come across as over-eager.  But you didn’t play games with a woman like Belle; you snapped her up quickly before some smarter bloke came along and did so while you wasted time dithering.  Yes, he resolved, tomorrow would be just fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe being home wouldn’t be the ordeal he’d dreaded.  Maybe something good could come out of the mess he’d made, after all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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